


Drawn in the Air

by Talullah



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-06
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2182005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long path to happiness...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to zhie for the beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Written for slashy_santa, for Nimvala who requested Olórin/Legolas – it may start as Gandalf/Legolas but will eventually focus on the Maia, not the wizard. NC-17. I would like to read a story about forbidden love with angst level that would put Romeo & Juliet to shame. But of course, with happy ending. If that's too hard, then any fic with some plot is still nice. :) Also, it would be extra nice if you write a Valinor fic and have some of Silmarillion characters make a major/minor appearance.
> 
> [Disclaimer/Blanket Statement](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/profile)

_Every heart to love will come, but like a refuge._  
Anthem – Leonard Cohen

 

Alone. Bereft. Cold. His friends gone, his family missing, Legolas felt that the Blessed Lands were anything but the promise of joy he had heard from the tenderest age. The first chunks of loamy soil hit the casket with a sickening sound of finality, tying a knot on Legolas’ throat that threatened to suffocate him. His friend was gone, another, the last. First Pippin, shortly after Merry... Legolas had seen them often in their last days, wizened and wiser but still full of effervescent zest for life. To Legolas, their physical fragility had not heralded their demise. He had mourned them in shock: time ran too fast in this new age of men.

Not more than a blink had passed and the brave, beautiful Éowyn had followed. Faramir, left inconsolable, had drawn into himself, leaving a shroud of sadness in his wake. Ithilien had grown cold despite their efforts to cheer him up. Only for his grandchildren did he manage a smile. The fate of Men left indeed bitter seeds. Faramir’s death had finally given some meaning to the claim that death came as a gift to Men. His last words had come with a genuine smile. “At last I can follow, my love,” he had said to a point behind his eldest son’s shoulder. Legolas had followed his gaze and for a moment, he could have sworn Éowyn stood there, bright and strong as in the early days of their acquaintance. When he had looked back, Faramir lay peacefully, a hint of his final smile lingering in his lips.

Aragorn had followed too quickly, the dignity of his choice paling next to the suffering his decision brought upon his family and friends. The deep respect and affection born between them was a comfort of sorts, but Legolas could find no meaning in the loss of such a life. Not a full year later, Arwen, whom he had grown to love as a sister, had fulfilled her choice in the now dark Lothlórien.

It had been then that Gimli had sombrely said, “We had better sail west before I follow their fate.” Long they had discussed the possibility of taking Galadriel’s gift and sailing. The Dwarven nation dwindled, such as the Elven, and Gimli had no parents or spouse or children. A hero he might be, but to his people he was worthy of pity. He preferred a last meeting with Galadriel in the West. On a few occasions he had shared another dream with Legolas: to meet Aulë, breeder of his race. He laughed it off, self-conscious at his pretension, but Legolas had secretly vowed to do what was in his power to bring such a dream to life.

Thus, it was with grief in his heart that he visited Eryn Lasgalen for the last time. Things had changed and for the better. Despite the reigning joy, the clear forests and all the new babies, Legolas could see the end coming, perhaps not as swiftly as for the wrecks of Imladris and Calas Galadhon, but on the horizon. Death was the new watchword for Middle-earth, this land so hardly fought for that no longer felt like home.

Hearkening to his promise to Gimli and to the call of the Sea, he embraced his brother and sisters, kissed his nephews, and took the blessings of his father and mother. He would miss them, but he doubted not that they would follow soon. This and the promise of the hallowed White Shores had lightened his heart for the long crossing of Belegaer through the Straight Road.

He had hopes and dreams. Some had materialised even as they touched Tol-Eressëa. Friends and allies of old waited, ready to great them, to welcome them into their new home. Gimli wanted to see more and Legolas himself was far from yearning to settle down. They sailed further to Alqualondë, and in Tirion they had been honoured with blessings of the higher kind. Humbled, Legolas and Gimli had soon searched permission to travel though the lands, exploring the vastness of this new world.

These had been happy years, only marred by the passing of Frodo and Sam. Legolas had taken their deaths less harshly, and soon he and Gimli had departed on another voyage, this time to the far south. Time was merciless, though. Gimli’s strength started to fade sometime after entering his fourth century. His life had been long and full but his growing weariness could not be concealed. When they had finally gained audience with Aulë, Gimli had bowed with difficulty. For the few days they had stayed with the vala, his vivacity had resurged. Legolas’ heart had sunken when, as they left, Gimli sighed with contentment and said, “Now I can die happy.”

It had been too swift, Legolas thought as Aulë himself delivered his son to the earth. He had found the idea of burying Gimli repulsive, but upon the vala’s insistence he had abided by the rites of the Adoptive Children of Iluvatar. Now he regretted the hasty decision.

He had not realised that he was visibly shaking until Mithrandir rested a hand on his shoulder, softly squeezing. No, not Mithrandir, Legolas corrected himself, looking through the corner of his eye. The form of Olórin still came as a surprise; in Legolas’ mind the strong, reassuring presence was associated with Mithrandir’s wrinkled smile. This brilliant being that stood by his side had little in common with his friend of old, both in appearance and in manner. Still, he was a friend, one of the scant few he had. Legolas sighed, thankful that he would not have to see the ceremony to its end on his own.

They stood for a long time by the grave. A light drizzle formed from the grey mantle above, adding to Legolas’ misery. Finally, Olórin squeezed harder on Legolas’ shoulder, and invited, “Let us have a nice pint of ale in his honour. He would have appreciated it.”

Legolas numbly nodded, though he had no interest in drinking or making polite conversation on the ineluctability of mortality and the benefits of it. At least now there was no one left to die, he thought bitterly as he followed Olórin down the path to the city.

Olórin seemed to understand and partake from his mood and wasted no words on trifles. Legolas was staying at an inn and Olórin lead them there and discreetly up to his room. He sat on the bed watching indifferently as the Maia murmured a word and the dead dark of the fireplace became alive with blazing fire. No words were exchanged until the innkeeper’s son came by with the ale.

Legolas sat closer to the fire to take his drink, but he sunk his eyes in his tankard to avoid the questioning gaze of his friend. A log cracked loudly, bringing a memory of a similar fire by Gimli’s side and a shared old joke. Before he knew it, his breath caught and the knot in his throat became a stone. The first sob wracked through him, making him spill his ale on his lap. He stared at his lap, more sobs following, making the stain grow larger. Mithrandir took the tankard from his hands and sat on the arm of his chair, holding him, gently patting his back as the pain coursed though him.

“I’m sorry,” Legolas said at last. He brusquely dried his eyes, embarrassed at his overt display of sentimentality.

“Nonsense, don’t feel sorry for having feelings,” Olórin chided. It was incongruent, that warm, worn voice full of pragmatism and compassion coming from that pristine, unfamiliar figure. There was still Mithrandir under all that too-perfect beauty and for an instant Legolas’ loneliness receded.

“Thank you,” he uttered, his tentative smile melting into a grimace before he could stop it. His heart had been breaking for a long time.

Mithrandir waved a hand dismissively. “You should sleep now. I’ll come by in the morning so that we can talk.”

Legolas nodded. He had almost asked Mithrandir to stay, watching over his sleep, but that would be as inappropriate as ridiculous. And it would be false too, because he missed his own father and his childhood days. The loneliness returned full force and Legolas sobbed himself to sleep, as images of his kith and kin and the green leaves of his homeland marched down the eye of his mind.

* * *

Legolas woke up feeling sore, tired and vaguely ill. He sat on the bed looking at his rumpled clothing and trying to figure out what to next. He had no place to go and there was nothing he particularly wanted to do. When he looked into his heart all that stared back was a huge void.

A soft knock on the door interrupted his dark musings.

“Come in,” he croaked, realizing too late that his voice had suffered from his mourning.

Olórin came through the door followed by the innkeeper carrying a breakfast tray.

“So,” he said as he pulled up a chair and sat close to the bed. The word sounded like a question but Legolas was not sure what that could be.

They waited for the innkeeper to leave the room. Legolas pushed the tray away, frowning at the eggs and prepared to rise. Olórin rose in front of him, obstructing the way.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

Legolas shook his head. “Perhaps later,” he said.

“And then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going to stay in bed all day? Or are you planning to do anything?”

“I don’t know…” Legolas felt vaguely embarrassed that Olórin had read him so well.

“I wouldn’t like you to think that you are alone. I have not been present too often in the last few years but you have a friend in me.”

Legolas nodded. “Thank you.” He stared at his knuckles. Looking directly at Olórin made him feel uncomfortable, especially after the overly emotional display of the previous night and moreover, wearing only his sleeping clothes and being quite possibly tousled.

“So,” Olórin repeated, breaking the silence.

Legolas shrugged. “I’ll think of something. There are a few people I can visit... Elrond’s sons have become true friends...”

Olórin inhaled, reclining in the chair. “Don’t you think it is time for you to settle down and carve a place for yourself? You’ve been adrift too long and to continue so alone... I don’t see much good coming from it, you know.”

“What would you have me do? Find a cottage and a nice lass? Found a kingdom? Maybe a nice city palace where I can play court intrigue with the very best?”

“None of those... I would have you do something that made you happy.”

“I’m not sure I know what that would be,” Legolas confessed.

“I know,” Olórin said, patting Legolas’ hand. “I know.” He straightened his tunic over his thighs. “I’m returning home tomorrow... I thought you might like to come along.”

Legolas looked up temporarily surprised. To him home was still Middle-earth and he could not imagine Mithrandir referring to any other place as ‘home’. Then it came to him that Olórin dwelled in the gardens of Irmo and sometimes visited with Nienna. The thought of living in the close company of such beings sent a superstitious shiver down Legolas back. He already had trouble enough with Olórin’s brilliant appearance and the occasional sightings of gods strolling down the streets as if it was the most normal thing. His Silvan heart, grown far from deities and religion was overwhelmed.

“Thank you,” he started, but Olórin smiled as if guessing his thoughts.

“Don’t say ‘no’ right away. Why don’t you think about it first? I’ll leave by dawn. You can join me at the Market Square or you can stay here sulking and follow later on, when you’re tired of being alone.” Olórin winked, wrinkling the skin around his eye, making Legolas think of Mithrandir.

He smiled. “All right, I will think.”

* * *

He did think. He lay in bed all day long thinking of the countless reasons why he would prefer to hibernate in his room instead of following Olórin into uncomfortable novelty. By sunset Legolas had no doubt in his mind that he would not accept Olórin’s invitation. He had no appetite for the roast meat the innkeeper brought him, but he forced a few bits down before putting out the candle and trying to drift into sleep.

It was useless. Legolas tossed, turned, got up, lay down again... His restlessness had no name and offered no truce. When a pale grey light announced dawn, Legolas sat on the mattress staring out, too awake to sleep, too tired to move. Hooves clopped in the patio’s stones. He knew it was not Olórin. He did not want to go. He jumped into his leggings and packed his few belongings in a heartbeat and tossed a gold bracelet as pay for his stay to the startled innkeeper as he ran out of the inn.

Olórin was still at the square, squinting at the horizon as his lips moved in a prayer to morning. A small donkey stood by him, nibbling on his sleeve. Legolas felt silly and dishevelled as he arrested his running, but Olórin greeted him with such warmth that all worries were forgotten.

“It is a good thing that you have come,” he said, embracing Legolas. “A very good thing. I think you will find what you are looking for in my lord’s gardens.”

Legolas nodded in thanks and let the observation drop. They faced the road, navigating through the maze of small streets leaving the Market Square until they reached the main road that left Tirion heading west. Olórin made lively observations regarding the things and persons they met on the way, sounding so cheerful that Legolas could not grudge a smile and now and then a chuckle. He understood what his friend was offering – a way of distracting him from his loss and his grieving, and he tried to accept it graciously. As they distanced themselves from the city and the sun rose high, the morning chill turned to a promise of a hot day. It was good to be back on the road after spending the remainder of the last year stuck in a house watching Gimli’s life slowly leaving him.

The dark thought made him miss one of Olórin’s comments. He nodded, trying to make it look as if he had indeed been paying attention but Olórin was not easily fooled. Affectionately placing an arm around Legolas shoulder he said, “There’s nothing wrong with mourning. Soon you’ll find better solace than I can offer in my lord’s house.”

Legolas bit his lip. He was not too sure he wanted what was offered. Still they kept walking, now in silence, until the discomfort became mere companionship. They paused for lunch, under the mild shade of a lonely tree. Olórin took the load of the donkey and let it free to graze on the roadside grass. They were well into the countryside and a few farmhouses promised cider and fresh bread, but in a mute agreement they preferred to keep to their own provisions and avoid the small talk that would break the peaceful mood that had settled between them.

The animal drifted off as they ate. After the meal, Olórin roamed through his pouch until he found something.

“Hah! Here it is.”

Legolas stared wide-eyed and amused as he saw him pull out a pipe and a pouch of pipe weed.

“Old habits die hard,” Olórin said, his amusement over imposing again the image of Mithrandir.

Olórin reclined against the tree trunk, carefully preparing his pipe, but Legolas’ curiosity had been spurred.

“Is this still from Middle-earth?” he asked pointing at the pouch.

Olórin assented. “Yes, the very last of it. Hopefully now and then a ship will arrive to these shores carrying more. Meanwhile, my lady Yavanna has agreed to grow some for me. I suppose they tolerate well the eccentricities I developed in my time abroad.”

“It is so odd hearing you speaking like this,” Legolas confessed. “At times, if I close my eyes you are the Mithrandir I have always known from my father’s court, and who lead me in the impossible quest into success. But when you refer to here as your home and to them as your people... I wonder if I have ever known you.”

Olórin extracted a deep puff from his pipe. “Sometimes I am not too sure of who I am myself.” He winked mischievously. “I am not going to worry too much about it, though.” He closed his eyes to better savour the sweet smoke.

Legolas watched him closely. He could discern in the perfect features of Olórin the shape of the worn face he had known. For long he had known that Mithrandir was no ordinary old Man, but someone of higher power. Still, the first time he had seen his true form had been a shock. The forest was dark and menacing and Legolas expected to meet a foe, not a friend thought lost. Still, there had been no doubt in that infinitesimal moment when Mithrandir had turned to face him, Aragorn and Gimli: It was him, but it was not. Legolas had clearly seen a timeless face irradiating power before the familiar appearance had settled in its place.

“Olórin,” he started. “Am I allowed to ask a question?”

Olórin chuckled, eyes still closed, relishing the pleasure of smoke. “You are allowed, yes.”

“Your appearance...” Legolas found himself hesitant in his question. “I suppose you did not want to look old and worn forever... When I arrived you were already transmuted from Mithrandir to Olórin... What happened?” Legolas meant to ask a more infantile question – did it hurt – but he had been able to restrain himself. He could not imagine changing so dramatically without profound pain.

Olórin opened his eyes to look at Legolas. “It was not truly a matter of appearance. The flesh I carried was both blessing and hindrance. I had grown accustomed to it, out of need and it had become me, in a way, but it also stood in the way of my true essence. I do not know if I could ever explain this properly, but as I walked into the fire for purification, I felt that I was freed and that I remembered myself. I soared as spirit over the flames and sought refuge in my old home, at Lórien. Galadriel, my friend of old, was at the ceremony. She says I smiled through tears as I left, though I do not recall it.” Olórin turned his eyes to the horizon, over the amber waves of ripe grain.

“And then?” Legolas asked as the pause stretched.

“Then I slowly returned to the world in this shape you know now, which is how I saw myself before Middle-earth carved into me. I felt lost, but the Lady Nienna helped me, and so did my Lord Irmo with his dreams...” Olórin’s eyes seemed to drift through distant memories, but after a few instants, he rose in a burst of energy and called the donkey.

“Time to go, my lad,” he said offering his hand to Legolas.

The afternoon went by slowly and quietly. No more conversation ensued, as each dived deeply into their thoughts. At night they stopped on the fringe of a copse. Legolas ventured into the trees, searching for a creek or a pond where he could wash. His hasty departure in the morning had left little time for personal hygiene. Olórin stayed back, preparing a camp and a simple meal. Legolas could hear his bustling around even over the soft murmur of the stream he had found not too far off. They were comforting until Olórin started humming a song of the Shire. A clear image of an aged Pippin singing the same song slapped Legolas on the face. He knelt by the water trying to swallow the knot in his throat, surprised at the intensity of feeling now, so long after.

It was no good. Knowing that Olórin could listen, he tried to suffocate his sobs in his crumpled shirt. He was not effective; Olórin came closer and Legolas could not staunch the tears anymore than he could get up from his knees. An arm around him, a tender voice only made the sobs worse. He could hear himself saying “I am sorry, I am sorry,” like a fool, but he could not stop.

Olórin did not try to comfort him save for the embrace. When exhaustion overtook pain, Olórin’s tunic was stained from Legolas’ tears. Feeling light-headed, Legolas sat back, catching his breath and trying to avoid Olórin’s inquisitive eyes.

“Here’s a towel,” Olórin said handing Legolas a piece of cloth that had been trapped between them. “I just thought you might need it.”

He left quietly, leaving Legolas grateful for his kindness and tact. He washed quickly and returned to the camp feeling a strange, hollow peace within.

The night meal was taken quietly and soon both lay to rest for the evening. Legolas fell deeply asleep, tired from a blank night and two shortly followed emotional outbursts, but he woke before dawn. It was too early to start the day so he lay in his bed roll, watching Olórin. The Maia lay in his own roll, across the dead fire; his eyes were closed as if in sleep, but his breathing suggested some measure of alertness.

Olórin had kept the lean form of Mithrandir, the new, fitter clothing now revealing his strength and elegance. The beard and bushy eyebrows were gone; his skin was as smooth as an Elf’s and the eyebrows arched delicately lending a touch of distinction to his face. The hair was of a silver colour, dark now in the faint light, but almost white under the sun. Legolas had never thought of this new form as anything else than odd and unfamiliar but now he could see its beauty. A tender admiration rose in his chest as he contemplated all that his friend had abdicated in order to serve others, to bring the greater good about.

Olórin sat up with languid movements. A yawn, a good-humoured stretching of his limbs came naturally, despite his godly nature. Legolas stirred too, mumbled a ‘good morning’ and left to fetch water for breakfast.

Olórin’s chipper mood had returned and all through the morning he delighted Legolas with stories of people and places on both continents. Legolas had a keen curiosity for everything that regarded the Harad, which he had only visited once; Olórin was happy to oblige. Noon came and with it the lunch pause. Olórin tasted his pipe again and they took a nap, waiting for the worst heat to go by. The afternoon was quieter, but the silence felt light and satisfying.

Days went by in the same fashion. They advanced slowly, watching the ripe fields turn to harvested plains, the farmland giving way to prairies, then sparse forest. Legolas had travelled along this road once with Gimli but it had been spring. Now he enjoyed the vision of bounty, trying not to think too much about his home and the hard winters he had known. His people would sooner or later find the safety of these shores and all would be well.

He also felt closer to Olórin; slowly the jarring feeling of contrast between memory and appearance blurred and Legolas could go for hours without thinking of the Mithrandir he had known or feeling the unease Olórin had inspired in him at first. His heart was lighter and his loneliness receded. He was glad he had decided to come.

* * *

All roads end at some point. At length the western road found Irmo’s gates. Legolas would have enjoyed prolonging their voyage indeterminately, but he could see Olórin was happy to return home. Irmo’s gardens were larger than Legolas expected; it took them almost another week of travelling from crossing the gates to the heart of Lórien.

There was a subtle change in the air, a sort of dull song that both exhilarated and affrighted Legolas. Strange birds called, rumours of laughter followed glimpses of oneiric creatures. They were shy but teasing; in their wake a benign feeling remained. The trees too and the grass seemed to bend in the shapes of dreams. When Legolas tried to look closer, he could find nothing odd to report. He smiled and marched on.

Gradually, the meandering dream forest gave way to a wide prairie. The open space provided no more normality than the forest, but Legolas delighted in the novelty of all. Sometimes Olórin would murmur something and look amused; Legolas could see nothing but quick changes of shade in the air. It was fine, if Irmo’s sprites preferred to greet Olórin without denuding themselves under his eyes.

The prairie softly sloped into a lake where a thick copse lay. As they came closer, Legolas realised that he was looking at a tree palace, a wilder, livelier version of what he had seen in Lothlórien. It was both beautiful and unsettling in its magnificence.

“My lord’s halls,” Olórin simply said.

As they approach, the restlessness that had haunted Legolas before returned, agglomerating on the pit of his stomach. His palms were cold and damp and his breath hitched. Olórin seemed to ignore his apprehension as he led them through the first branches and into a cunning stairway made from living branches. In all his years Legolas had never seen trees like this. He obediently climbed behind Olórin, trying to contain his wonderment as the wonderfully illusive creatures began to take shape before his eyes. He supposed that Olórin would lead them to Irmo’s steward or even to the vala himself, but again he was caught off-guard. At the turn of the corner an open lounge hosted a small party. Reclining in long chairs, several glittering forms conversed in soft voices. The brightest of them raised a hand and called out to them in Valarin. Olórin smiled and replied.

Legolas followed him into the lounge and sat by his side in a chair he was certain was not there the moments before. He tried to stop staring at Irmo but he could not; he seemed to be made of shifting light and colour, but if Legolas looked closely he could only see perfect, white skin. By his side a valier sat looking distinctly amused at Legolas’ wonderment. Estë’s form was at once softer and brighter than Irmo’s, but they seemed to complete each other in ways Legolas could not exactly name.

He had seen vala and valier, of course, but always from a certain distance. The couple and their court seemed to lack the formality Legolas had witnessed in Tirion. Through his fascination, he barely noticed when the vala addressed him in Sindarin.

“Olórin tells me you need our aid.”

A cold chill ran down Legolas’ back. “I dare not ask for so much. I came merely for the pleasure of the company.” His refusal was not exactly polite, but Legolas both rebelled against the idea and feared the price of taking such aid.

Irmo smiled. “A wary one, he is,” he said to Olórin.

Legolas did not relax – he preferred an amused vala to an angry one, but his instincts were still alert.

Estë smiled as she curled her ebony locks around a finger. “Leave him be, husband. What he seeks will find him in time.”

“As you wish,” Irmo replied before resuming his conversation in Valarin with Olórin. Legolas sat quietly through the rest of the meal, watching and trying to grasp what was being said.

At length, the feast was over. One of Estë’s maidens took Legolas’ hand in hers and conducted him through the tree palace into a room of sorts with walls of mossy trunks and an open wall looking over the lake. Legolas doubted he could find his way out of the maze on his own, so, despite the beauty around him, he felt like a prisoner. With nothing else to do, he washed in the basin and lay in the bed of leaves, staring at the lone star in the evening sky.

He did not feel sleep coming on.

* * *

He woke. The sun came green and soft through the ceiling and the walls, reminding him of something he had seen in his reverie. He shook the thought off, but the images of himself running through thick woods in the body of a stag kept leaping before his eyes; he had run wild with fear as the hunter came closer, but when they had stopped at the edge of the lake, the reflection in the water revealed the hunter’s face as his own. His heart jumped at the sudden realization of power but the feeling had been ephemeral. Legolas could not remember more. Despite the dreaming, he felt rested and ready to start the day.

The same maiden let herself into his room unannounced and conducted him to his breakfast. Olórin was not there. Before he finished, Estë came in and sat by his side.

“I am a healer of the body, not of the soul like my husband’s sister,” she bluntly stated. “I would take you to her, if you so wished.”

Legolas hastily chewed the bread in his mouth, not wanting to leave a valier waiting, but struggling for a fitting answer – he wanted all but to meet the sombre Nienna. “It will be my pleasure,” he blurted as soon as the milk had washed the bread down.

Estë gave a mischievous smile. “Good. I thought you would like that. We leave in the afternoon.”

Legolas finished his breakfast, inwardly cursing himself. He could not fathom what had happened to make his tongue betray him like that. He spent the rest of the morning haunted by the question: “What am I doing here?” The trip had been fine, a welcome distraction and a way a buying time before trying to cast some light on the dark abyss that was his future. Now he was not so sure anymore if it had been a good idea.

Estë came later than he expected. He had found his way back to his room after a confusing promenade and she found him lying in his bed, staring at the patches of blue that shone through the leafy ceiling.

“You have your pack ready?” she asked, letting herself in unceremoniously.

Startled, Legolas sat up, wondering why the room had a door if no one knocked: It took him a few seconds to understand Estë’s question. “Pack?” he repeated, confused.

Estë waved her hand. “Never mind. You won’t need much.”

She turned to leave, casting Legolas a glance that left no doubt that he should follow.

“Where is Olórin?” he asked. “And why would I need my things packed for this evening?” The situation made him feel unsure of himself but also irritated that the decision was taken from him without consultation.

Estë shrugged. “You’ll see him soon enough.”

* * *

That was not to be. They travelled in confusing circles through the boughs of Lórien until night fall. Estë stopped to look at the rising moon, a quiet smile dancing in her lips. Then she lead Legolas to a dark glade. A lone figure clad in soft greys sat, her back turned to the visitors.

“Legolas,” she called softly.

A chill ran down Legolas’ spine. She had spoken directly to his mind, like Galadriel had once. He squared his shoulders and advanced in her direction.

“I was waiting for you,” she said.

“Why?” he tossed abruptly, the irritation surfacing again.

“To offer you what you don’t want and think you don’t need.” Nienna turned to face him. Her face was flawless but grief-stricken. Something sad lingered in the corners of her mouth, softening the frightening perfection of her features.

He bowed to her out of a genuine impulse, awed by her. Then he straightened his back and looked her square in the eyes, his rebellion returning.

“And what would that be?” he challenged.

“A shoulder, that is all,” she said, offering a soft smile. Her smile was kind, completely devoid of the hints of amusement Irmo had shown or the soft condescendence of Estë. Legolas thought of his mother, soft and small, blonde and freckled, not like Nienna at all. For an instant he was tempted to fall into her arms and let himself be comforted like a child.

He resisted the impulse. “The friendly shoulder of a mighty Valier freely offered to a simple elf for no particular reason… I am afraid that is more than I can accept,” Legolas said. He looked around but Estë was nowhere to be seen. It did not matter; he would find Olórin, say his goodbyes, and return to the road.

Nienna sighed, her smile wavering as if she were a young maiden rejected by her lover. “Not everything has a cost, dear,” she said, “and you are not a simple elf. If you were, it would be the same. My doors are open to all, though few seek me. But if you really want to know why I offer you my ears and my house, Olórin is the reason. He has been a loyal friend for uncounted years and I would deny him nothing.”

“So he asked you to…” ‘Take me in, fix me up…’ Legolas was not sure how to finish the sentence or if he should feel offended.

“He asked me to give you a place to think in peace. Away from the decisions you know await you in Tirion or any other place you choose to go.”

Legolas slowly shook his head. “So I was lured here…”

“Lured?” Nienna raised her eyes, more surprised than angered. “A friend offered you something, that is all. Were you unaware of what is done in my brother’s house or mine for that matter? Even the distant Tawarwaith have a vague idea what whom and what we are.”

Her soft, hurt tone felt harsher a reproach than harder words. Legolas forced himself to stay silent, against the impulse to apologise.

“Why did you sail to these shores, Legolas?” she asked, refusing to let silence widen the gap between them.

“The sea called…” Legolas replied, feeling rather bland.

Nienna’s kind, sad smiled resurfaced. “You say your heart sang for the sea but you have not seen the sea until you’ve seen the Ekkaia.” She placed a hand on his arm. “Come to my home, sweet Legolas. Come.”

Her touch soothed Legolas, filling him with images of a calm, endless sea of muted blues. No one sailed it, no gulls were seen, no extravagant azures called, no empty promise lay across. He wanted that, he knew it instantly, but his wariness came as the first reflex.

“I do not think-” he started.

“Don’t think,” Nienna cut.

“Olórin, I must-”

“He’ll meet us there when you are ready.”

“My things-”

“Come,” she simply said. “Come.”

Legolas found that words escaped him. He nodded dumbly and let her power carry him away.

* * *

The house of Nienna was a place of peace, not of sorrow. Legolas would later come to remember his first days there with some confusion and amazement. He had not realised he was angry, so incredibly angry at all the things he could not change. His anger had first turned on Nienna, upon waking up in a room of bared walls filled with the harsh salt air of the westernmost cost. Eru, the things he said… He had cursed the gods, kicked the stool, cursed his own stupidity for being tricked, cursed Nienna, Olórin, Irmo, Estë, his father for letting him come, Gimli for wanting to see the cursed shores, his friends for leaving him alone, and a long, long succession of friends who had had the incredibly audacity of dying on him, the bloody traitors.

His long monologue had started in his room, as he tore the covers off the bed and ripped the curtains to pieces. He had mightily slammed the door as he left his room, cursing all along, letting the echoes of his voice fill the halls of Nienna. No one had come and that had made his anger burn brighter. He had searched high and low, swearing, kicking, slamming, damning… After a few hours he had stumbled into a dark, cavernous room, completely exhausted. He had thought the room to be empty, safe for the brazier casting a dim light at the far end but as he reached it, he had seen Nienna quietly sitting in the shadows. He was too tired to curse her anew and too tired to stand so he had fallen to his knees at her feet. She had simply run her fingers through his hair until he slept.

The day after, he had less energy to spare. He had woken feeling tired and sore but still far from empty. His rage had simmered low, taking the form of a stubborn refusal in accepting the food left for him. Other days had come, some more intense, others quieter. He could not tell exactly how many days had passed or how many moons, but he could remember how he had finally accepted what could not be changed, forgiven others for their faults – real or imaginary – and at last, how he had allowed himself some respite. Nienna’s house had not been the place for sentimentality and hollow words of comfort that he had expected it to be. It had been instead the stage where he had met his rage and unleashed it until it could hurt him no more.

As his choler had subsided, other feelings had come on its heels. There had been confusion, uncertainty… Life ahead seemed too wide and too empty. He would sail the little boat Nienna had given him, exploring the westernmost costs, but the traveller’s life no longer appealed to him. The Ekkaia was cold and empty; all other roads were travelled... Still he was at peace… he had found a faith of sorts, an inner conviction that something would come his way, some meaning would fill the void inside. Meanwhile, he could find joy in simple things, sun turning water to liquid diamonds, clouds taking shapes of castles, pines lending a green scent to the air of the sea… Nienna had other guests that he met now and then. He could see himself in some… others were too different, but Legolas found that now, his anger uncovered and stripped, he could find a deeper empathy inside.

He had long stopped counting time when Olórin visited. Legolas was returning in his boat when the familiar figure walked on the pier. He waved and called out, receiving a warm wave in return. He manoeuvred the small boat into the harbour and tied it in, jumping to the pier in a swift movement. He walked straight to Olórin and embraced him tightly, although that had not been their custom before.

“Olórin!” He drew back to better see his friend.

Olórin smiled back. “You are now angry at me, I suppose…”

Legolas grinned. “I was for a while…”

“You know I’m a meddling old fool. You do look well,” Olórin said, casting an appreciative look. Legolas smiled, somewhat embarrassed.

“The Lady Nienna does treat us well.”

“Ready to face the world?” Olórin asked abruptly.

Legolas raised an eyebrow. “I could be… Do you speak in a general way or do you have a specific intention?”

“Both…”

Legolas sighed. “Well, let’s hear it, then,” he said, starting to walk back to Nienna’s.

* * *

“How far south did you and Gimli travelled exactly?” Olórin asked, inspecting his wine.

“Pretty much as far as south goes,” Legolas replied, trying to interpret the glance Nienna cast him.

“How did you like it?” Olórin continued in a neutral tone.

“Windy, cold, barren… not exactly a paradise, though some parts do show a roughed beauty of sorts… Not as if the Valar have done much to clear the traces of Ungoliant in all this time,” Legolas added as an afterthought.

Nienna shrugged, suggesting she had taken no offence. Legolas took his fork to his mouth, sensing part of what was to come.

“Time passes in the Blessed Lands too, and each year more elves arrive… others are reborn. They need space to live.”

Legolas placed his fork on his plate a little too forcefully. “And so you are here to ask me to do for these lands what I did for Ithilien, is that it?”

“You were never a fool, my friend,” Olórin calmly said, placing the emphasis on friend.

To Legolas’ surprise, some of the old anger surged. He forced himself to ask “Was this part from the plan, from the beginning?”

“No.” Olórin looked straight into his eyes. “There was never a plan, just concern for your well-being. And no one is forcing you to accept anything. It is merely an invitation.”

His words cooled Legolas’ anger. “Fine, let us hear it, then.”

Olórin took a sip of wine, eyes closed as if searching for the right words to begin. “We would not ask so much as for you to take the task single handed. Neither would we expect you to become the ruler of a people if that is not your wish. We would simply ask for some of your time, some good advice… and nothing else that you would not freely give.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Legolas asked, holding Olórin’s eyes.

“It is simply a manner of speaking. They are the kin of your father, your kin. Survivors of Doriath who sailed, others returned from Mandos, others from your own Greenwood…”

Hope stirred in Legolas’ heart “My father has come?”

Olórin pursed his lips. “He lingers east still…”

“I see,” Legolas said swallowing his disappointment. “I was informed upon my arrival to Aman that these people you speak of lived in the recesses of Oromë’s woods… What changed now that they would want to build another home?”

Olórin sighed. “Nothing in particular. Oromë has not withdrawn his shelter, no political factions seek contention, no resources, titles or honours are being disputed. Simply, it got too crowded. The people are fragmented, disorganised. Their chieftains do not work well together and their great leaders of old have not rejoined them. Thingol returned from Mandos but chose to live with Melian in the far corners of Lórien, away from the world. Amdir and Oropher linger in Mandos. Amroth was never a ruler by choice. Your father and Celeborn have not sailed to these shores… Oromë refuses to intervene, saying quite rightly that any aid would later on be seen as meddling... No one has forgotten the Noldorin rebelling against the Valar. Galadriel will not leave her kin in Alqualondë and I doubt that they would have her, married to Celeborn or not. Save for a few ambitious former courtesans, all we have is you and Mablung, but Mablung has ever been a captain, whereas you have truly ruled.”

“I have not even visited them… how could they want me?”

Olórin looked at his fingers, seeming somewhat embarrassed. “Your close friendship with a Dwarf has not been unmarked… Some understand and respect that you would not bring him to their home, but others point the finger and say that Oropher’s grandson has betrayed their people…”

Legolas’ lips twisted, pursed, then opened in frank laughter. “Madness. Madness!” he exclaimed. Olórin did not share his laughter.

“I suppose it was asking too much of you,” he said, looking vaguely disappointed. He nodded to himself as if considering some thought. “Yes, please forget that I mentioned it. You have earned your right to a quiet life.”

He reached for the raisins forgotten on the table and slowly chewed a handful, studying Legolas. Nienna remained silent, looking at some abstract point behind them. The silence soon became unbearable, oppressive, accusatory.

“Well, I suppose I could go just to see,” Legolas offered; he knew Olórin’s silence for what it was, but he did not mind the blatant manipulation, he realised. He had nothing better to do: at least the voyage would bring some novelty to his life. “Yes, I could go. I would love dearly to meet Mablung of the Heavy Hand.”

Olórin smiled. Then Nienna spoke, returning from her thoughts as if she woke from a dream. “You chose well, Legolas. You have received all that we could give you here. Your destiny now lies elsewhere, though you will always be welcome.”

She gracefully left the room, leaving Olórin and Legolas alone.

“How do you manage?” Legolas asked, taking his own wine and playing with the rim of the glass.

“Manage what?”

“To be so interested… so alive. Whereas I am this mess… or rather was…”

“You are fine,” Olórin said smiling. He finished his wine and rose. He stopped by Legolas as he left the room and fondly squeezed his arm. “It helps being a Maia,” he said with a wink and a quiet chuckle.

That night Legolas went to his room deeply absorbed in thought, but he did not reflect on the past or dream of the future. His mind kept returning to the feel of hard flesh against his chest as he had embraced Olórin on the pier. That and the way his lips had quirked into a smile that was almost sensual as he had first tasted the wine.

* * *

For the first time in a long time, Legolas found himself impatient on the road. He had always enjoyed travelling slowly, but the idea of meeting the remains of Thingol’s people, his childhood hero Mablung in particular, pushed him forward. He resisted the thought of accepting Olórin’s offer, but too often he would pose questions, the type of pragmatic queries that meant that in a corner of his mind he prepared himself already. He did not want to be excited over this and he certainly did not want to compromise himself yet.

Another completely distinct set of thoughts spurred him forward. Olórin’s presence, so welcome at first, now was something of a mixed blessing. Legolas’ thoughts on his friend had become less than chaste. He was no stripling to not recognise these desires for what they were – a certain loneliness, a yearning that he had never fully satisfied by his brief carnal encounters, now heightened by the prolonged celibacy and Olórin’s obvious physical attributes.

The dreams had started about a week after their departure, soon after they had begun to circle Irmo’s gardens, heading to Oromë’s woods directly through the wilds. Legolas had no doubt that he gave signs of agitation during his sleep but thankfully, Olórin made no comments. During the day the images returned to haunt him. Again and again he ran through the forest, but he was no longer the stag or the hunter, but a hybrid being. He was not alone, though. Olórin waited for him at the lake, his naked body half covered by the water, the pale skin glistening under the starlight, thin shadows delineating the elegant lines of his lean musculature. Legolas entered the water, yearning to take him but Olórin would disappear, leaving Legolas only twisted reflections on the surface.

Legolas did not think himself as stupid. He knew that the dreams were a message from Irmo and he suspected very well what the message was. He felt like shouting, “Don’t worry, I won’t touch him,” but he could not. In a way he regretted that he had left behind the stillness of Nienna’s house, but he felt life running again in his veins and it was good. The colours seemed brighter, the fruit sweeter, the birds’ singing shriller and gayer… It was fine, he thought with a smile.

As the voyage stretched, their fireside conversations blossomed into the intimacy of before. One night, Legolas, trying to be subtle, dared asking Olórin if he had loved.

Olórin drew a smoke from his pipe and smiled. “That is a tale for another night,” he had said, but another night had never come. Legolas had chided himself for going too far into territory he had no intention of pursuing, but things had not changed between them.

Finally a dark line in the horizon had announced Oromë’s woods. Legolas had breathed with relief and anticipation. The next day they would arrive.

* * *

They travelled through the woods for several days before they reached the first settlements. Legolas could see around him the signs of overexploitation: naked brambles in full ripe season, no mushrooms, little hunt. He dared not thinking on the size of the settlements he would find.

Olórin conducted him directly to Mablung, through diverse clusters of huts and telain. The marchwarden was not there but Olórin unceremoniously entered his home and sat waiting. Legolas reluctantly followed him in. They did not wait for long. Mablung arrived, looking tired and vaguely annoyed. He nodded at Olórin, sat by the table, and stared at Legolas.

“It’s a good thing you’ve come. In days like these, I doubt that I’ll be able to do everything alone for much longer.”

Legolas could not help a quirk in his brow; he was both surprised and amused by Mablung’s lack of ceremony. Before he could clarify that he was present only as a visitor, Mablung continued in one breath.

“You’re the spitting image of your grandfather. I hope you have more sense between your ears than he did. People tell me he became a king and a good one, but frankly, I can’t imagine Oropher being anything but a spoiled little brat always running beneath our feet.”

“My grandfather was barely a hundred when Doriath fell,” Legolas defended firmly.

Mablung’s lips slowly quirked into a grudging smile that grew into a chuckle and then a frank guffaw. “And you speak just like him too! Your scowl is a bloody faithful copy!” Mablung laughed again, affectionately patting his back, leaving Legolas uncertain if he had received a compliment or not.

“We’ll get along fine, just as long as you turn out to be slightly less stubborn than that thick skull. The thickest skull I’ve ever seen.” Without giving pause for thought, Mablung rose. “I’ll get something to serve to my esteemed guests,” he declared, crossing the short distance from the parlour to the kitchen in wide strides, murmuring an amused “I’ll be damned,” as he glanced again at Legolas. He returned in no time with a pitcher of wine, some bread that did not look too fresh but still edible, promising smoked ham and an odoriferous cheese wrapped in a coarse linen cloth. Legolas’ mouth watered.

Mablung returned to the kitchen to fetch glasses and a dish of olives. “No kingly feasts here,” he said, regarding Legolas intently.

“I am not a king…” Legolas said, avidly stretching his hand to the olives, feeling already the firm pulp. He did not miss Mablung’s smile of approbation, and it pleased him. He felt that he could come to like this stern, practical elf. As he crushed the olive’s fresh in his mouth, extracting the rich flavours, he also knew that he passed Mablung’s first test, but that many more would come.

After a few pleasantries regarding their voyage, and a few comments to Olórin regarding people Legolas did not know, Mablung turned his attention to him again. “Well, there’s no better way to start getting you acquainted with the problems that we have here than by telling you how I occupied myself this afternoon.”

Legolas nodded to indicate that he was listening, despite his obvious appreciation of the smoked ham, so similar to that of his home. Mablung sucked on his fingers and sighed, reclining on the chair. “There’s this young couple, he was reborn some two-hundred years ago, she less. They had been betrothed when he was killed by a band of road bandits. She decided to sail west but her caravan never arrived to Mithlond. They were slain as they crossed the Misty Mountains. So now you’d imagine that they’d be reborn in the land of Plenty and be living happily ever after, no?”

Legolas raised an eyebrow in mute invitation for Mablung to continue.

“Well, they found themselves a spot about a day’s travelling from here and built a nice little talan. He had been a tannery apprentice before, so he started hunting for skins, buying others and quickly set up a nice little business… Now as you must know, tanners and tanneries stink like Orc’s breath and this would not have been a problem if their neighbour had not meanwhile returned from a lengthy stay up north with her kin. She’s a widow from Mirkwood, perhaps you will recognise her later if you meet, and she’s been earning a living doing this and that, growing as much as she can in her back yard, though the soil here is poor… She also makes these hams,” he pointed to the delicacy on the table, “and sells them. People started buying them out of pity, since most people know enough to make their own, but soon enough she had her faithful clientele.”

Mablung sipped on his wine before continuing. “So you’d think you’d have two stories of success, no?” Again Legolas incited him to continue with a subtle head movement. Mablung filled his chest before proceeding. “Well, the widow complains that the smell of the tannery is ruining her hams during the cure; the tanner is angry because now and then the pigs ‘accidentally’ escape, and have more than once damaged his work and this last time endangered his first born, a child of ten.”

Legolas nodded. He knew there was more to come. Mablung obliged.

“Since both use the stream for their activities, the neighbours who live downstream, although separated for a couple of miles, are starting to complain. This would be nothing, if the widow’s son had not returned from his apprenticeship with an uncle in Tirion, after his rebirth. The lad had only met his Noldor father for a few years before both were killed, so it must be something in the blood: he got this idea that he should put down some trees and build a forge, which would require a lot more wood to continue running in the future. Naturally, the loggers in a radius of five miles are stirring, and some hotter words have been said on this matter, certainly not the last.”

Mablung finished his retelling and stared at Legolas, who smiled slightly. He could recognise his second test right before him, only that there were no easy solutions for this one. He preferred to keep his opinions for later.

“So how are you planning to address this? I doubt that any will willingly move and that would only serve to create a problem elsewhere.” Legolas knew he was threading common place, but he wanted to test Mablung himself.

Mablung shook his head with an amused snort, recognising the manoeuvre. “I see that you are slower than Oropher in putting forth your opinions. Not a bad thing. Well, to answer your question, so far I’ve been just trying to keep the peace. I tried to convince them to collaborate in some measure, and for a few months the widow would sell the skins of her pigs to the tanner, but that didn’t last long… I have to settle this quickly, but the problem is that I have no real power. I am not their king to tell the widow’s son he has to set his smith somewhere else, there are no guilds formed to prevent unfair competition, there are no communes to solve land use problems… we are literally living in a jungle, and my only surprise is that we arrived this far without killing each other based only in sporadic mediating by third parties, such as is my case.”

Legolas chewed on his lip. “And what makes you think that these people would be willing to take a ruler now, after so long doing as they pleased?”

“They’re past the point where that freedom is more valuable than order and the structures that guarantee their individual rights are not trampled as it is increasingly the case.”

“And I would be that king?” Legolas challenged.

Mablung returned his attention to his glass. “It’s not a simple deal. You’d have to be willing to convince a part of them, although your father’s subjects are more than ready to take you on as their leader... well, most of them.”

Legolas snorted. “So you’re asking me to ask them to be king...” He absently played with a bread crumb. “How about the local chieftains... certainly there are a few who are ambitious enough to reject such a proposition.”

Mablung returned the snort. “That would be understating it. The only reason I am still respected and called to arbitrate disputes is that I have steadily refused to take sides or lead my own faction.”

“Olórin has spoken to me of your intentions of moving to the far south... wouldn’t it make more sense then for the people who go down to take you as their leader instead of a stranger?”

“I don’t want to be king.” Mablung set his glass perhaps a little too forcibly on the table. “I want to spend how many years as they are needed to solve this mess and then find some patch of forest that is not overcrowded and hunt.”

“It sounds like a good plan. What makes you think that I don’t want the same for myself?”

Mablung swiped his hands on his leggings. “You were born to this. You may even think that you don’t want it and you might be thinking also that I don’t have a clue about you, but I know this much – if you weren’t interested you would have stayed in your cosy corner.”

“All right,” Olórin said, clearing his throat. “I think we could use a rest, no?”

Mablung nodded. There was still light in the sky but all three had had a long day. Mablung’s home was small but he found room for their visitors, a rather narrow straw mattress that filled the parlour. After weeks of hard ground, the mattress was a lovely change and Legolas lay in it with a satisfied sigh. He was still in his dusty leggings but the night was warm enough to dispense with the shirt. Olórin followed his example, lying on his side to make the most of the space. Through the curtain of silver hair Legolas could see faint scars on his back. He brushed a finger across one.

“How was this done?” he asked. A very long silence ensued, making him turn in search of a better position, wondering if his touch had offended. Although he and Olórin had become quite intimate, they touched sparingly.

The first owl cried out and Legolas sighed again, too tired to sleep immediately. He rolled to his side like Olórin, and they lay in the growing darkness not quite touching. They had not lain this close before and Legolas was surprised at the amount of heat that radiated from Olórin’s body.

“I apologise for the question,” he offered in a low voice after a few minutes. It was clear that Olórin was not sleeping either.

“Do not fret about it,” was the curt reply.

“Why am I here, Olórin?” Legolas asked tiredly.

“I would say that you are here because you are needed but also because you need it. Are you afraid?”

As he examined himself, Legolas played with a few strands of silver hair lying in the mattress; he knew Olórin could not feel it.

“Not exactly afraid and not tired either... I am somewhat apathetic, that is all. I am not sure if I agree with you in needing this.” He let go of the hair and lay to his back, feeling the freshness of the floor against his leg. “We’ll see tomorrow.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, when Legolas woke, Olórin was gone already. He could hear him and Mablung speaking in low voices outside, and realised that he had overslept. That was certainly not the best way of impressing the ascetic marchwarden, but Legolas did not rise immediately, choosing instead to stretch for a few minutes.

He was relieved that he had not embarrassed himself further during the night. He had gone to sleep certain that the dreams would return and that Olórin would wake to find him in an embarrassing predicament, but instead he had slept like a rock. All for the better. He had sat up and was putting on his tunic when his host and friend came into the house.

"Morning," said Mablung. Olórin just cast him a vague smile.

"There's some goat milk in the table and bread," Mablung offered. "And a stream runs by the back of the house if you want to wash." He returned to his conversation with Olórin, to which Legolas mentally thanked him – he was not awake enough yet to dive into politics. He gulped down a cup of milk and chewed down the bread on his way to the creek. The water was a little on the gelid side but Legolas enjoyed feeling clean again. He returned to the house bare-chested, to look for a shirt in his pack.

Mablung and Olórin sat at the table, as if waiting for him. As soon as he was dressed, Mablung and Olórin stood.

"I am going back to try and find at least a provisory solution for the problem of the tanner. I would appreciate your company, if you'd be willing to join. At least you can see what you'll be getting into if you decide to stay with us for a while."

Legolas regarded him with a certain curiosity; Mablung's words had grown considerably milder overnight. He suspected Olórin might have something to do with it but his friend gave no hints.

"Shall I take anything for an overnight stay," Legolas asked remembering that Mablung had mentioned a day's travelling. Mablung nodded and Legolas hastily stuffed his few belongings into his backpack.

"Ready if you are," he announced. Mablung assented with a nod and left the house. Legolas followed him, but after a few steps he noticed Olórin had not followed. He turned back. Olórin was still standing at the door.

"You are staying?" Legolas asked rather inanely.

Olórin squinted. "Yes, I think it's best and besides I have some private affairs to take care of. I will be here when you return."

Legolas frowned with a mix of confusion and reproach, but only said, "Farewell, then."

* * *

They travelled at first in silence but around mid-morning Mablung started talking about the numerous issues of the forest life and the problems they had. Legolas' interest was deeper than he would like to admit, but that did not stop him from posing questions. By the end of the day, as they arrived to their destination, Legolas was beginning to know intimately the problems of the Sindar and Silvan peoples established in the Woods of Oromë. A vague wish to help had insidiously installed itself in the back of Legolas' mind, which was reinforced during the next day as he silently watched Mablung's efforts in negotiating. He realised that both Mablung and Olórin concurred to manipulate him, but he found himself rather amused and by the time that Mablung set to return home with barely an improvement to the situation, Legolas felt more amenable to the tasks ahead, though still reluctant about the idea of claiming some sort of kingship.

They found Olórin smoking outside and an aroma of hot supper flowing out of the house. Legolas was grateful for the comfort, but over dinner Olórin announced that he would be leaving the following morning, obeying a summons from Manwë himself, and that he knew not when he would return.

That night they shared the narrow mattress once more, but he could not bring himself to talk to Olórin. He was tired and put off by the sudden departure. To voice his feeling of abandonment was to admit to a need he did not really have and he knew he could not do it without sounding like the child he was not.

He was startled when Olórin spoke.

"The scars are a memory of the balrog's whip."

Legolas let the air drain from his lungs as slowly as he could. He could not think of anything to say.

"I am sorry," he uttered at last.

"I am not. It is a good not to forget and they are part of me."

"I feel the same about mine..." Legolas started. He dared not completing the thought, ‘but I did not die to get them.'

He saw Olórin's side rise as he inhaled deeply. Legolas brushed the pale scars through the silver threads with his fingertips, then let his hand fall. He could feel admiration, compassion, empathy, but nagging on the back of his mind were still the silly adolescent fantasies, turning an innocent touch into something that he did not want to claim. He rolled to his back and willed sleep to come. He did not wake when Olórin left by dawn.

* * *

Olórin returned the next year. Much had changed: Legolas' experience allied with Mablung's pragmatism had turned them into a reference for the people. The people respected Mablung and listened to him, and by extension had come to respect Legolas, though some still looked upon him with reservations. Too young, too certain of himself, too single... the objections were many, but there were also those who recognised him as a hero of his people and those who had been won over by the soundness of this advice. There were no magical solutions for the complex problems before them and despite this fairly wide recognition of wisdom and goodly advice, Legolas and Mablung were still far from having convinced the people that a migration to the south was fundamental. Most could see the logical reasoning behind the words but most also though that they had worked to earn their right in staying and that their neighbours should be the ones to leave. A voluntary exodus was still far from being a verisimilar scenario.

Olórin listened attentively to the novelties Legolas and Mablung related over the dinner table. Legolas had built a small talan near Mablung's house and was only present as a guest. Still he helped with setting the table and bringing out the food as if he was in the house of his brother or one of his sisters. During a pause in the conversation, he regarded Mablung intently, quietly smiling. Through shared work and interests, the ascetic marchwarden had become as close to him as a brother indeed. It felt good to have friends again.

He could feel more than see the moment Olórin caught his smile. The maia lifted an inquisitive eyebrow but made no comments. Mablung broke the lull by offering another round of wine. They resumed the conversation, this time discussing how the fishing rights for the brooks and creeks should be managed. It was late when they finally rose from the table. Legolas bid them goodnight and walked out to his talan, simply snorting when Mablung questioned his ability to climb to his bed.

He did not look back, not even after he heard the door close. Olórin had easily slipped from his thoughts but now he felt a certain weight settling somewhere above his stomach, a vague feeling of sadness. He wished he would be spending the night on the floor next to his friend, touching those pale scars, drawing away silver hair to find more pale skin... He frowned upon his thoughts, and decidedly prepared for sleep, heeling his boots off and tossing his shirt over his head. He lay in his low mattress, making an effort to concentrate on his list of tasks for the day to come.

* * *

The following morning, Legolas woke up relaxed and happy. No dreams had haunted him, no inappropriate erotic desires had troubled his sleep and he wasted no time in attributing his feelings of the previous day to simple silliness. He took his breakfast then went down for a quick wash. After his ablutions, he walked to Mablung's home and briefly knocked before letting himself in.

Olórin sat alone at the table.

"Mablung was called but he says he'll return today," Olórin informed.

Legolas nodded. He had already an idea of what it might be and Mablung would have woken him if help was truly needed. He sat by Olórin's side and tried to start a conversation by the usual niceties, inquiring over his sleep. Olórin gave him a quirky smile and chose to redirect the conversation with such bluntness that Legolas was speechless for a few moments.

"You are not falling in love with Mablung, are you?" he asked without preambles.

"No," Legolas replied simply after a few moments of stunned silence. "He's my friend..." he offered reluctantly, feeling irritated with himself for the compulsion to justify himself.

"So am I," Olórin replied, making Legolas' heart race with the implications. Olórin let at interminable pause rest between them before adding, "your intimate affairs are not my business, but your people will not feel the same."

"We live in separate houses, for Varda's sake," Legolas cut louder than he intended. "And they are not my people, they are just people."

"They see you and Mablung as their leaders, but I doubt they would accept you as a couple. You know that the old customs are still upheld."

"And you knew what I was before you set me up to this task." Olórin opened his mouth but Legolas did not let him speak. "Long before I set foot in this continent you knew where my desires lay. If you wanted a king that would marry and sire children, you should have waited for my brother. And Mablung and I are not a couple and will not be one," he added as an afterthought. "I don't even know how he feels about this whole matter."

"You'd be surprised," Olórin quietly said. "I don't want to fight with you, Legolas. I am just warning you, for your own sake."

Legolas stood up. He was not eager to quarrel either but the comments and his own reaction had incensed him. It was better if he would take a walk. "Thank you for your concern," he said as dispassionately as he could. "I will be back by lunch time." He regretted his coldness almost immediately but he could not take it back.

He returned much later than he had promised. He was not angry but unsettled. He stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, peering inside. Olórin acknowledged him with a faint smile. Legolas sat by his side and they rested in silence for a while.

"Mablung should be here soon," Olórin said at last.

"Yes," replied Legolas.

"I didn't mean to give offence," Olórin continued.

"I know," Legolas replied. "But it's still my business."

Olórin sighed but Legolas did not let him reiterate the obvious. "My people," he said placing the emphasis on ‘my', for once assuming his link, "need to see that the time to change has come. If I ever come to hold a sceptre here I will not force anyone to live a lie in the name of forsaken decency laws. There has been enough punishment. And if the Shining Ones are against it they will have to come down themselves and pry into each bedroom."

Olórin shook his head. "You should know by now that we do not think like the elves. We have no great love for gender or roles and our people has not been decimated or threatened by untimely death. This flesh," he pointed at himself dismissively, "is nothing but a shell." He lowered his voice and offered an apology. "I should not have tried to interfere. It was infantile."

Legolas absently played with a crumb left on the table. "Olórin, have you never loved?" he asked in a spur of curiosity:

"Why do you ask me this now?"

"It seemed relevant to the theme…" Legolas offered.

"I have loved, yes."

"One of your own kind?"

"Not a maia, if that is what you are asking."

"An elf, then? One of Man kind?"

"An elf, but that love was not to be."

Olórin gazed through the window, but Legolas insisted. "Why not?"

"You ask too many questions… let us just say that unions of maiar with the children of Iluvatar are not well-seen."

"But Melian…" Legolas objected.

"An exception, created by her sheer will, and some overlooking on our part," Olórin dryly replied. "This is one of the reasons she prefers to linger in Irmo's gardens with Thingol."

"Surely there must have been others…"

"Not that I know of."

"And this elf… did she reciprocate your feelings?"

"He. And no. I met him in my other life where you have known me as Mithrandir. Hardly attractive I was and they say love starts with the eyes."

For a moment a ridiculous little flame of hope burned bright in Legolas' chest. "Is he here in Aman?"

Olórin grimaced. "Of a sort. In Mandos."

"I'm sorry." Legolas was indeed sorry for Olórin's obvious discomfort at the subject but he could not hold his tongue, now that the subject was open.

"Do you still love him?"

"Of a sort," Olórin replied, true to his laconism.

Legolas' heart sank.

"I am sorry," he repeated.

"I am not."

They raised their eyes simultaneously, recognizing their words of the year before and vaguely smiled.

Legolas meant to continue with his questioning but Mablung arrived, sitting by their side, and jovially asking what was for dinner. His presence and his friendly banter lightened up the mood, but Legolas wished he had come a few moments later.

Mablung told them about his day while they prepared dinner and a few generalities were discussed during the course of the meal. As Mablung served the last cups of wine, Olórin spoke.

"There is a reason why I came," he started. "The Lady Yavanna has been working to the south and the lands are more fertile and the woods richer. Lord Aulë has also taken some of his people and they have found iron ore and traces of gold. The land has far more to offer than we expected and I hope that this news will help you in your task here."

Legolas and Mablung glanced at each other. "Seeing is believing," Mablung said.

"I could arrange for a small expedition… I can think of a few people who would gladly come with me and bring back testimony," Legolas offered.

"That would be good," Olórin agreed. "Do you think I should come along or would that be more of a hindrance than of help?"

"Hindrance," Mablung said without blinking. "We still feel a certain distance from the Ainur…"

Olórin nodded. "Fair enough. I have brought a few maps with me if you'd care to study them…"

He rose and fetched his bag. They spent the larger part of the night talking over the maps; Legolas only returned to his talan when the darkest hour of the night had passed. The nightly chill made him feel lonelier than usual but this time he was too absorbed in the conversations he had held in the last hours to dream of Olórin before sleep. All the better, he thought rather bitterly.

* * *

Olórin stayed on for only a day longer. After, Legolas and Mablung were continuously busy, preparing the trip south. A month later, Legolas departed with a company of ten, more than he expected, less than he desired. The initial party did not return wide-eyed from the south, but they were at least convinced enough that their living conditions would improve with southward migration. Legolas lead them as informally as he could. He systematically refused any titles given to him, undue deference or privileges. Still, not a year later, he was undoubtedly regarded as the leader of the thriving new community, and a guide voice to other settlements forming nearby. The Silvan people had always held to some form of self-governance and slowly their habits of communal management started rubbing onto their Sindar counterparts. Legolas watched, pleased. He really did not think they needed a king.

Inevitably, changes came. More people arrived and occasionally, much against his will, Legolas found himself forced into direct intervention, prevention, and dealing with uprising problems, thus instating him further into a role he wholeheartedly refused. These moments were brief, though, and soon he could resume to his ordinary tasks and his peaceful life. Sometimes at sunset he would indulge in some harmless vanity: he would climb to the highest tree and look over the canopy where the green odours turned the cooler air pungent. He would close his eyes to the bluish haze and the shimmering golds and pinpoint with staggering precision every single dwelling that spread below. His eyes would roam through the forest, searching its rivers, finding patches of prairie, timid fields... his people had not yet fallen to love farming but did it with respect for the land. Legolas would be proud for an instant, just before he chuckled self-dismissingly, reminding himself that he was little more than a pawn in a wider game.

As he climbed down the tree and returned to his talan, Legolas tried not to think too much about grander things. What he would prepare for dinner was more than enough to worry about. His life was fine – he had friends, food, and shelter. Still... still, still. Still he missed the closer friendship of Mablung who had stayed up north, holding together the settlements. He missed Gimli. His family... his brother would love his new home, he was sure, but he could not see him sailing before their father did and it would take nothing short of a miracle to separate Thranduil from his land. A deep longing, quite different from the initial stabbing anguish filled Legolas when he thought of them. He wondered if he would ever hear his mother's laughter or his sisters' bickering. And he wondered if he would be ever alone.

Olórin seldom came and when he did Legolas would rather that he left sooner than not. On the lonelier nights he wondered: when does desire turn to obsession? When does obsession turn to love? He loved Olórin now not as the delighted elven child had or as the friend in hardship had. He loved Olórin. There were no other words for that longing.

* * *

Another year passed and another. Legolas had come to terms with his solitude and faced unrequited love for Olórin as a sort of private joke. It was still there and it still prickled more than stabbed, but friendship would have to do.

The land and the people were prosperous. Peace reigned. Legolas had settled into a state of contentment, not really thinking on any further grand surprises in his future. It was as such that he almost laughed when Olórin came again and delivered the news: Oropher, his legendary grandfather, had left the Halls of Waiting.

After the initial shock he could not help but pouring a torrent of questions over his friend. Olórin obliged, but Legolas knew him for long enough to recognize his attempts at diplomacy. At the end of a very frustrating game of cat and mouse, he decided it was time to cut through the chase.

"What are you not telling me?" he asked Olórin. "And why?"

Olórin played with a crumb of bread until it turned to a small grey ball.

"All right," he said at last. "Oropher has laid some pretty strong claims to royalty up north. Mablung is not too pleased and a rift has started to form between those who want him for king and those who don't, I fear."

"But I thought you told me he had arrived only a few weeks before..."

"Yes," Olórin laconically replied.

"But Mablung is disputing the crown with him, is that it? I'd never thought that Mablung would be more inclined for kingship than I was..."

"Not exactly. Mablung thinks they don't need a ruler. It is true that you both managed to turn random groupings of starving elves in organised, prosperous communities, but not all are as happy as you think. See, you got the little people with you, safe for a couple of exceptions; Mablung was stuck with an unequal mix of people who had in times claims to nobility and commoners. The former would be more than glad to be reinstated in a court where others defer to them and provide for their needs, while the latter are perfectly happy with what they have now."

"I see," Legolas replied, but he saw nothing indeed. He wanted to meet this grandfather of his and decide for himself. "I'll go up north with you, then."

"I was hoping you would say that."

They exchanged a few more remarks about practicalities and went to sleep. Two days later, Legolas had taken care of all the loose ends and was ready to meet his ancestor.

* * *

The road was longer than Legolas remembered. A vague queasiness made rest impossible and conversation awkward. Time dripped slowly like honey but bittersweet. Olórin kept to himself but the silence was not quite heavy, only ambiguous. Legolas told himself he read too much into insignificant details. Wishful thinking was all that there was and at least this time no embarrassing dreams came along.

His thoughts were brought to more tangible affairs as they reached the southern borders of Oromë's Woods and started to cross them. Legolas was pleased with what he saw: ripeness and abundance had returned to the woods. The children were plump, the trees and brambles were laden with fruits, the brooks ran clean. They could walk for a full day or more before bumping into another living soul, and when they did, they were welcomed with a smile. From what they gathered, whatever dissentions there were, they had not yet reached the fringes of the forest. As they walked on closer to the heart of the region, Legolas started receiving subtle interrogations regarding his loyalties. Each time a shiver ran down his spine: he feared what could become of them.

When they finally reached Oropher, his grandfather welcomed him with a warm embrace. In the first evening they proceeded to careful but warm mutual acquaintance, staying away from delicate topics by a silent agreement. Oropher was not at all the elf his father had painted, nor was he the self-important buffoon the Noldor wrote into their chronicles. Legolas found him disturbingly similar to his own father especially in his quirky sense of humour that was nonetheless contagious. Legolas wondered how similar he was to his own father without realising.

Over the next few days, Legolas' acquaintance with his grandfather deepened and slowly, the prickly issues were introduced. He could see that Oropher had some good claims to his cause. Indeed, no matter how well-organised their lives had become, the hard truth was that the people needed stronger leadership and often some excesses took place that could be easily prevented if there was not a void in power. Oropher did not come through as a power thirsty tyrant but rather as someone closer to his own father: Someone with a strong fist but a delicate hold, someone who understood the need for a certain level of formality and the moment to break it. The idea of Oropher's kingship started to grow on Legolas.

Mablung arrived soon after. Legolas was glad to meet his friend but the following days were tense. Olórin mostly listened and Legolas himself only intervened when the southern colony was directly mentioned. Both sides had much to say, but through the inflamed words Legolas could detect mutual respect and the remains of an old friendship. He prayed for a quick solution, but life in Aman was a more complicated challenge than any he had faced in Middle-earth. He wondered how well things would go if his father ever sailed West.

After weeks of discussion, Legolas put forth an offer that surprised all and him not the least.

"Take my people, do as you please with them," he offered to Oropher. "If they accept you as their king and things work well, then you two can resume to this conversation in some time."

A small snapping sound was heard through the resounding silence. Olórin had broken his pipe. Oropher was the first to react.

"Nonsense, boy," he said as he rose. "You are well to stay as you are and you know perfectly well that I wish to work at a higher level."

Mablung slapped the table. "Are you insane? After all you have done you would just open your hands and let everything fly? And besides, what would you do with yourself?"

The jitter that had seized Legolas's chest dissipated as his friend and grandfather spoke. A faint smile of growing certainty spread on his lips as he replied.

"It would not do you any harm to see how things are done now, grandfather, and to start slowly, earning more than claiming your crown, like you did before in your other life." He turned as he spoke to face Mablung, "And as for you my friend, you know that I never wanted this. I am not unhappy and we have gone far, but this is not yet what I am to do with my life. I'm sailing East."

Oropher dropped to the chair as Mablung chin dropped and Olórin shouted "What?"

Legolas took a deep breath. "There is no hurry, really, and I will stay for as long as I am needed," he reassured his grandfather, "but contentment is not happiness and I long for something other that what I have. East is my home."

Olórin pressed his fingers to his forehead. "It's late and we are all tired. I suggest we continue this in the morning."

Oropher cleared his throat but did not speak. Mablung nodded.

They retired for the evening in heavy silence.

* * *

Legolas was not sure he was awake or not. He ran through the forest, seeing his delicate paws moving frantically, the branches whipping his sides and muzzle mercilessly. Behind him, the hunter ran too, bare handed. He knew the path well: it ended in a trap, a lake he could not cross. That the agile hunter behind did not carry a bow was no reassurance to him. He desperately looked around, but the darkness offered no detours. He knew he ran to his death even as the branches thinned, opening into the glade he knew so well. He stopped at the water edge. He could swim of course, but he was exhausted, so tired he could only tremble and wait. He faced the water, the glistening moon softly rippling as the steps grew closer. He dropped on the sandy strip, preparing for the familiar vision of his own human face to show in the water by his side. Silver hair came instead. He started as a strong hand lay between his ears and the face of Olórin greeted him instead. His heart threatened to burst, fear and exhaustion concurring to overwhelm him, but Legolas was more than a scared deer.

He rose to his feet to face his enemy, but Olórin did not touch him. He walked into the water instead. Legolas knew he had to follow him, knew he would die if he did not and he would die if he did. The water felt cold on his feet but Olórin was growing distant and he had to reach him. He took another step and another until the cold darkness pulled him under. His body did not respond as he tried to swim. His lungs burned, the moonlight grew dimmer as he sank, air bubbles distorted the sky above. He gulped.

* * *

Legolas woke gasping for air. He was shivering and covered in sweat. Fumbling for the tinder and a candle, he tried to reassure himself that he was alive and well. His hands shook but he finally brought light to the room. He sat on the bed, sighing deeply. Through his window he could see the star-speckled black sky of a new moon. Taking another deep breath, he decided to search for Olórin.

Legolas found him sitting on the floor by the wall outside his room. Legolas could not have been more surprised, and cold fingers of fear touched the pit of his stomach. He straightened his back and held Olórin's hard gaze on him. He had been, after all, trained to overcome his fears since the day he was born. Olórin blinked first, shifting the moment.

"I need your help," Legolas said, trying to ignore the absurdity of it all. Maybe he was still in the dream.

"I know," Olórin replied, not budging an inch.

"I have these dreams..." Legolas started, reclining against the wall. "Something tells me you know exactly what I am talking about."

Olórin looked up, his face conceding nothing. Legolas slid down the wall, settling by his side.

"At first I thought Irmo was sending them as a mean of aid... After all, in my dreams I was the deer and the hunter, and there was a certain logic in facing that I had to catch up with myself..."

Olórin looked away, but Legolas could have sworn he had chuckled.

"I see the time spent with the Lady Nienna has taught you plenty. Please do go on..."

"The dreams stopped for some time, but then returned. I thought then that they were a warning, the images sent by a very powerful lord, forbidding me to cross a certain line. I abided by this warning." Legolas took his gaze from the opposite wall and turned to Olórin. "The warning was more complex than I had though, wasn't it? And the sender was certainly not the Lord Irmo."

An almost imperceptible flicker of Olórin's eyelashes was the only response Legolas received. He placed his hand on Olórin's arm. "I think we should stop with the riddles now, don't you?"

Olórin made another noise that could almost be a bitter chuckle. "As you wish. You were right in both accounts: I sent you the first dreams because you were running from yourself, and the second ones to warn you that what you saw in me was not real. Any other dream you might have had were your own, though I won't pretend not to know some of the most colourful details."

Olórin faced Legolas, still ignoring the hand laid on him. "You should be angry that I invaded your innermost corners like that."

Legolas smiled. "I am, but not as much as I should, no. I assume that if you used your considerable powers to peek into my dreams it was because you saw something that interested you." He lightly rubbed his thumb on Olórin's arm.

"So tonight, what did you mean to tell me? That I am running from you? That is hardly true. You know that I... that I loved you for long. I have never imposed on you, especially after learning about the laws and customs of your people."

"Taking flight to Middle-earth is running."

"Running from nothing. All I have are dreams, and a cold bed, and an empty heart. Maybe distance and time will help me..."

"Not nothing..." Olórin faintly said, turning his arm in Legolas' hand, moving it until their hands met and their fingers twined. Legolas squeezed and tried to smile but his heart was threatening to break before him.

"I need more than a few dreams. I've lived alone for too long."

"If you try to sail East I will beg Ulmo himself to bring you back," Olórin said.

"I will try to sail again, unless I have a reason to stay."

"You know that it cannot be. My people still bear the memory of Melian, broken and wild with pain and your people would not accept their leader in a sterile bound. There, the words are said."

"So my drowning meant what? That I should linger on until I drown in solitude? I did not think you so cruel, Olórin."

"That was you and not me." Olórin extracted his hand from Legolas'.

"And how could that dream have ended differently? You yourself said there was no exit."

Olórin sighed. "I don't know."

Legolas started rising. The effort of relinquishing the only moment of such intimacy he had ever had with Olórin threatened to tear him asunder, but he knew barren ground when he saw it.

"Where are you going?" Olórin asked, a crisp note of affliction in his voice.

"To bed, though I doubt I will sleep. We have nothing else to say on this matter, do we? I wish I had never learned to love you differently, but now it can't be helped and it can't be assuaged. And I will be sailing east."

Legolas reached for the door knob, but Olórin was up with a jump, holding him in place with an iron grip on his arm.

"Don't leave me."

Legolas snorted bitterly, facing away. "We speak of a mere possibility. My lips never touched yours except for dreams. It should not hurt so."

Olórin drew closer, embracing Legolas. "Let me, then," he begged.

Legolas stood very still, watching from under his lids as Olórin's face drew closer to his, the pale lips slightly parting in expectation. This would hurt, he knew it, but he closed the distance, sealing their lips in a shy kiss, followed by another and another until he had Olórin pinned against the wall and the tenderness mingled with desire. All the feelings so long suppressed finally left the realm of dreams and the sterile words and...

"Sail with me." The words rung hard, leaping between them before either had a chance to stop them. Legolas pressed the idea. "You told me yourself that your cousin Radagast still lingers in the edges of my father's woods and that other wizards never came. Come with me. Please."

Olórin leaned his head back against the wall, staring at Legolas, mouth agape. "I don't-"

"Of course you don't," Legolas cut, drawing away from him. "You want everything: the respect and approbation of your people, a tame little lover that can content himself with dream visions and keep things quiet within his people... what more do you want, Olórin?"

The moment stretched, stretched until Legolas was sure that the words he wanted to hear would not come. No "I want you", nothing. He opened his door and went into his room, leaning against the wall himself, as the pain started wracking through him. Nothing, he still had nothing.

* * *

Legolas departed the next day to his land, leaving a note for Mablung, a more detailed letter for Oropher with an invitation to follow, and nothing for Olórin. He was tired of abiding by rules and too hurt to care if he would look childish to his would-be-lover. Oropher caught up with him a few days later. When his grandfather questioned him about his sudden departure, Legolas told him bluntly he had no intention of dwelling in the matter. The frank answer seemed to please Oropher.

Less than two years went by before Legolas could call himself completely free of his responsibilities. The people loved Oropher and appreciated his stronger political presence. Oropher in his turn did not indulge in excesses or unnecessary hardness but strove to create a balanced leadership.

When Legolas announced that he was ready to leave, Oropher tried to convince him otherwise. Recognising his own stubbornness in the grandchild he had come to love and respect, he let Legolas go with a series of letters and gifts for Thranduil and a warm farewell.

Legolas travelled north to Tirion for weeks. Then he waited for more weeks until he was granted audience with Manwë, then a few months of successive audiences trying to convince him that Aman should not be a prison and that Legolas would be happier with his own kin. A boat was arranged. Legolas sailed. Olórin never came, not even for a last goodbye, but still Legolas hoped in Alqualondë, then in Tol-Eressëa. He was surprised that each time his heart would still break.

Travelling into the future of his land brought mixed feelings: the havens once so glorious were now the home of a handful of elves, Círdan still there to lead them; the Shire was still green and prosperous but Imladris was a deserted ruin; men now dwelled abundantly in Eriador and the Misty Mountains were safer to pass; Radagast still lived in Rhosgobel but Legolas did not stop to greet him. He had no wish to discuss a certain common acquaintance which was sure to happen.

His natal Mirkwood was different too. He ran into nothing dangerous or dark and elves he did not remember started crossing his way more frequently as he drew closer to his father's home. The forest was still alive and that gladdened him. News spread ahead of him and Legolas was received mid-way to his father's halls by his brother and eldest sister. Thranduil waited for him at the gates but his mother ran out leaping into his arms. For the first time in a long while, the void inside Legolas was forgotten. That night, as he lay in bed, exhausted from his travelling and from the feast his parents had prepared for him, Legolas did not think of Olórin.

He quickly fell into his old routines. Sometimes he felt slightly trapped, but most of the time relief dominated him – he knew he was a ranger, a hunter and marchwarden, not a lord, and though he was able to fulfil the role it had never brought him over contentment and into a deeper satisfaction, that thing that Legolas now owned again and dared calling happiness. Only one thing was missed. Legolas tried not to think about it too much and mostly succeeded.

He stopped counting time, stopped measuring it by the birth of generations or even the flow of seasons. Thus, he had no clear notion of how long it had been when one evening he found a guest waiting for him. The silver grey hair gave away his identity even before Olórin turned to greet him with a faint smile.

Surprised, Legolas dropped his bag to the floor, but did not advance. His boots were caked with mud and his hair in dire need of washing. The patrol had been hard and long, as he liked them, and there was grime on every inch of his body, along with a smell of forest and wild things and dried sweat. It had never crossed his mind that he would meet Olórin again in this fashion.

"Olórin," he said, more as a question than as a greeting. His heart started racing as possibilities ran through his head. Surely Olórin was not there for him, surely.

Olórin smiled. "I was sent to Rhosgobel in aid of Aiwendil... I thought of dropping by. Since you were away, I've been imposing on your father's hospitality for a few days now."

The air left Legolas' lungs in a long sigh. Of course that was it. Of course. He swallowed the ball of dust and disappointment and moved into the chamber.

"Welcome, then," he said, offering a seat as he searched one for himself. He hadn't meant to sound cold but he could see Olórin's smile fading. He tried to make for a warmer reception by asking numerous questions regarding Radagast, his mission, his trip, Oropher and Mablung, and Olórin pleasantly replied to all of them. In appearance two old friends were having a normal reunion but an underlying tension rippled between them, the things not said speaking louder than the ones plainly laid out. As the dinner bell rang, Legolas rose, excusing himself and insisting that Olórin did not wait for him.

He went to his room with a certain feeling of relief. On the way he called a servant to draw him a hot bath and present his excuses to his father. He would stay in for the night. A few hours later he was clean again, well-fed and as fidgety as he hadn't been in a long while. It had taken him over an hour to prepare his patrol report that normally took him fifteen minutes, and even so, as he glanced at it again there were errors. Frustrated, he tossed his quill, spraying tiny drops of ink on the parchment – he would have to redo it in any case. He wandered through his room, knowing too well from where his restlessness rose, but feeling hopeless. He ended up dropping heavily to his bed, hoping that sleep would eventually come.

The next few days were spent in avoidance. Legolas would often meet Olórin and could not begrudge him friendly conversation but a wall seemed to rise between them. Olórin was done with his task but showed no signs of wanting to leave. His mere presence was enough to remind Legolas of all that he would never have but he could not break the laws of hospitality either by inviting Olórin out or disappearing himself in an impromptu hunting party. His name was so far down on the patrol roster... He waited and endured.

* * *

This time there were no dreams, only waiting. Sometimes Legolas wondered if a game was being played and no one had told him of the rules. Olórin had arrived with spring and now summer wilted into an early fall and nothing had changed. Perhaps time ran differently for them, perhaps Olórin had other orders to obey, perhaps... perhaps it was time the cards were laid plain on the table.

Olórin had climbed up to the highest watch post of the tallest oak of Thranduil's land. Legolas knew where to find him, as it had become a habit. At first he had been surprised: he did not see Olórin as a tree person, but later he had understood what it was that Olórin searched in the heights.

Legolas climbed the tree making sure he made enough noise to announce himself and carefully sat by Olórin's side.

"Still looking west," he said, looking intently at Olórin who simply nodded.

"I miss home now and then."

"When will you return?"

"I don't know."

"Why do you stay?" Legolas asked, a crisp resolve tingeing his tone.

Olórin shrugged and looked west again. "For you, I suppose..."

"You have some nerve," Legolas blurted, the flare of anger too sudden and intense to let him continue.

Olórin rubbed the lines forming between his brows. "Am I too late, is that it? Or have you thought better and...? What do you expect of me?"

"You, I want you," Legolas practically bellowed. "I have been loving you for, for-"

"No longer than I have loved you," Olórin calmly finished. "Manwë could have sent Thorondor to Radagast's aid. I came because I could not stay away, not anymore."

"Do you know how much it hurt me that you wouldn't even say goodbye?" Legolas realised he was still shouting.

"And if I had, do you think it would have been any easier?"

Legolas took a deep breath. "No," he admitted in a more subdued tone. "If you are here for me, why have you not made the smallest gesture...?"

Olórin took Legolas' hand in his. "I am doing now. Did you expect me to sing a serenade under your window?" The joke was lost, the tone too sombre to lighten the mood, almost aggressive.

"You could have come at any time, all this time, months... have I not waited enough for you?" Anger still mixed with hurt pride and uncertainty but Legolas had found in him that tenderness, that love that had become second nature to him. "Olórin, do not play with me. Tell me what this is. What can I hope from you and what will you let me give you."

Olórin lifted Legolas' chin with his fingers, drawing a caress until he cupped his cheek, his fingers brushing an ear, tangling in flaxen hair. "All. All that you want."

Legolas leaned into the caress, following Olórin's hand as it retreated, closing the space between them in a gentle kiss.

"Don't destroy me," Legolas whispered into Olórin's ear. "If you leave me now, if you break this hope there will be nothing left for me."

"I won't," Olórin promised. "Even if one day we have to return and face judgement and scorn. There are worse things in life than incarceration in Lórien. Not living this is one of them."

Legolas searched Olórin's lips again. They kissed for long, sitting on the platform, legs dangling, hearts soaring, two boys instead of two worn souls. The light dimmed over the Misty Mountains, and the air grew colder.

"We should go down," Olórin said. "Back into the world."

"I'd rather stay here with you, forever," Legolas replied, bringing their joined hands to his lips. "I'm afraid that if I go down I'll wake to discover it was only a dream. I couldn't stand it."

A small eternity passed from the top of the tree to Legolas' room. Friends greeted them, Legolas' younger sister had a question for him, nephews wanted to play. Legolas smiled with equanimity, replied politely, attentively even and strode along. The flutter in his chest had given place to a calm certainty. His features were schooled in a pleasant smile, his hand only lightly brushed Olórin's on occasion. They followed through Thranduil's halls together: there was nothing suspicious in friends of old walking together but not even an apparition from Manwë could have stopped Legolas.

The door lay before them at last. Legolas quietly opened it, inviting Olórin in with a smile. He closed it behind him, his fingers resting on the key for a second. Olórin read the question in his eyes and confirmed with a nod. Even as Legolas turned the key, Olórin advanced to him, took his face between his hands and drew him into a kiss less gentle and fierier than the others they had shared.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

Legolas snorted. "Surer than I've ever been. You?"

Olórin closed his eyes and smiled as he leaned for another kiss. "Yes, yes, yes."

Legolas had fantasised about this moment, even believing that it would never come. The heated kiss shared in Aman had been all that he had to go on, and so he had thought their love-making would be ardent, perhaps even a little rough, hasty but intense and satisfying. Now that he had Olórin in his arms, he realised he wanted something different. Legolas' heart hammered in his chest but he was in no hurry. He let his hand run up to play with the maia's silver hair. Such beauty. His fingers sought the warmth of the scalp, drawing lazy circles, tangling the silky hair. He wanted to feel Olórin's scent there where it was warm and pungent.

Their caresses were slow, the undressing paused. There was a certain awkwardness: they had been friends for so long that it was almost as if they were making first acquaintance now. Gradually, timidity gave way to need. Both lay naked on Legolas' bed, touching, tasting… Legolas soon realised he was more experienced and took the lead. He wanted to ask Olórin so many questions but it was not the time.

He watched Olórin's nipples harden under his fingers; he heard him gasp when he delicately took one between his teeth and teased it with his tongue. Olórin relaxed and started playing with his hair, unconsciously undoing the braids. Legolas smiled at him and continued his explorations, nipping the tender skin under Olórin's arm, licking his way along the arm until he met a ticklish spot. Olórin pulled his arm back with a bark of laughter mixed with pleasure but then offered it again to Legolas' hungry lips. Legolas continued searching until his tongue found another ticklish spot in Olórin's palm. This time he planted a firm kiss there before Olórin could pull back, then moved up to search his lips.

"Do you have any preferences?" he asked as vaguely as he could, watching Olórin's eyes for clues.

Olórin smiled sweetly, running a hand through Legolas' hair. "You'll find this funny, I'm sure," he said pausing for a kiss, "but for all this time I've never… my people do not place much importance in the flesh."

A smile flickered in Legolas' lips but he quickly suppressed it. "They don't know what they are missing," he quickly said, avoiding humour at Olórin's expense.

"I am not ignorant of what goes on, mind you," Olórin said.

"Of course not." Legolas kissed the corner of his mouth. "So I ask again, what would you have us try?"

Olórin sighed. "Anything that makes you happy. That makes us happy."

Legolas laughed. "I'm afraid we'll never leave this room again, then."

Olórin raised his eyebrow in a characteristic gesture of a challenge acceptance. They kissed again, Legolas' hands growing bolder, harshly caressing Olórin's flanks and stomach and back as they turned on the bed. Their legs now entwined and Olórin seemed to have abandoned coyness for instinct, bucking against Legolas. Their hands sneaked between them of their own accord, joining their sexes in a strong grip and a punishing pace.

Legolas drew back from the kiss to see Olórin's eyes afire. "I want this to last," he said, trying to move his hand slower.

Olórin obeyed, lying on his back, giving way for Legolas to cover him with his body, slithering down leisurely as he licked the sweat that started to form, until he knelt between Olórin's thighs and had his nose buried in the wiry hair at the base of his cock, then his mouth on taut balls. His hand pumped slowly, as his mouth teased, moving down to the sensitive skin below, then the thighs dusted with tiny silver hair. Olórin could not keep still, readjusting constantly under Legolas' hands, trying to feel more. Legolas tired of the game and took pity on him, delicately placing his lips on the head of his cock, swirling the dewy drops under his tongue, exploring the slit with a firm touch. He had seen Olórin's eyes open impossibly wide, he had heard his gasp and now he saw him abandoning, eyes closed, body still taut under him but quiet now, accepting what was given as Legolas took more and more of him inside his mouth.

Legolas delayed Olórin's pleasure as long as he could. His lover had an iron grip on his hair, but let him move at his own pace. When Olórin's moans turned to a series of short, pleading sobs, Legolas finally gave him to him and started pumping harder with his hand, bobbing his head as fast as he could, playing roughly with his tongue. Olórin did not resist his assault, coming with an almost savage wail.

Legolas tenderly lapped his fading erection for a few moments before he sat on his haunches, gently caressing Olórin's thighs.

Olórin opened his eyes, letting an expression of gratitude flood his face. "I hadn't thought…" He reached a hand to touch Legolas, beckoning him closer.

Legolas lay by his side, placing sweet kisses on his neck, until Olórin's panting had subsided.

"What about you?" Olórin asked. "I want you to take me."

"We can do that another day," Legolas offered. "I don't want risk hurting you on our first time together."

"I want it. I want your body so close to mine we forget our frontiers."

Legolas kissed his lips. "Are you sure? I'd be content with your hand, with your thighs…"

Olórin nodded. "I'm sure."

Legolas practically jumped from the bed and opened a drawer, furiously searching for a jar of ointment. "There," he said, returning to the bed jar in hand and his tumid cock bobbing with each step. He lay by Olórin's side and gently urged him to turn to his side, spooning behind him. "I'll try not to hurt you, but you have to let me know."

Legolas gently massaged Olórin's back and upper thighs, slowly concentrating on his buttocks. With each movement his fingers dipped further until he found his mark. Olórin sighed as Legolas took his hand to procure ointment in the jar. "It's going to feel a little cold," he warned as he returned his fingers to Olórin, circling his opening, dipping occasionally until Olórin pushed back.

"I won't break, you know…"

Legolas inserted his middle finger up to the second phalange, nibbling on Olórin's ear.

"That's pleasant," his lover whispered. Legolas continued moving in and out, waiting patiently for the moment to insert one more finger. Not long after Olórin was ready for more and then for a third finger. Legolas touched him gently still, but he felt his need building up.

"Can I?" he asked.

Olórin simply pushed back with a strangled moan. Legolas replaced his fingers with his cock, after a few strokes with ointment. Olórin was still tight despite the preparation and Legolas had to put his weight to aide, sliding him slowly but steadily until he was all in and practically ling on Olórin's back. He moved back, returning them to their spooning and thrust experimentally. Olórin's hand ran to his own groin.

"Did that burn too much?" Legolas asked, dying to move.

"No, move," Olórin ordered bucking back.

Legolas obeyed, slowly at first, angling to find how to make Olórin moan again, his moans delicious. It was not hard, and he continued hitting that spot, watching as Olórin touched himself and whispered endearments, his hand moving faster, accompanying Legolas until they were moving without any rhythm, just in blind need. Legolas came first, but he held on to Olórin, staying inside for as long as he could until his partner finished.

He closed his eyes and buried his face in Olórin's hair, as he slid out, still feeling the rippling of Olórin's second orgasm.

"I love you," he whispered. Sleep took him before he could hear Olórin's reply.

* * *

Legolas never believed in happily ever after. He lived surrounded by relatively happy couples, but for all their love, his parents quarrelled often enough, his sister-in-law had threatened to sail west more than his brother could count and his two brothers-in-law held regular drinking sessions where they cheerfully moaned about their wives. As such, he waited for his first quarrel with Olórin. Both had strong tempers and their circumstances were not the most favourable. Legolas waited for a year, then another. Sometimes there were slightly harsher words but they never bloomed into a true dispute. Legolas still waited but he recognised in Olórin and in himself a deeper understanding, a connection that could not be threatened in the most insignificant way, so precious it was for them both.

Thranduil had been less than pleased when Legolas had told him of his decision, but had come around. Intimately, he had long resigned himself to the nature of his son's desires and he respected and esteemed Olórin for too long to think him beneath his son. The rest of the family had been quicker still to accept. People had talked but then the talk had been forgotten for juicier, fresher subjects.

Legolas and Olórin often returned to the watch point on the highest oak. Olórin still looked west to the indistinct blue mass of mountains and dreamed of what he had left behind. Legolas held him in sweet, warm silence, reminding him of what he had found.


End file.
